


Pillow Talk

by Janissa11



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the job includes sleeping with a mark. That doesn't mean Phil has to like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This story includes so many f-bombs, you may feel as if you have inadvertently wandered into a screening of Goodfellas by mistake. Many, many thanks to G for having a look-see at this before posting.

It has to be this way. This is reality.

Phil listens, because it's his job to listen. To keep tabs, to watch the variables, to constantly assess and reassess the situation. To manage. To continually calculate, coldly and with exacting precision, the needs of the job. To get shit done.

He is very, very good at his job. 

He listens, and feels the hot furious burn in his belly. Five years ago, five months ago he would have recused himself from this mission, and he should have this time, should have had the insight, the fucking balls, to step away. Just fucking step away.

But he didn't, and maybe it's because he's invested in the outcome -- heavily invested, one might safely say -- or maybe it's because he trusts in his own innate professionalism, or maybe it's because of something he will not, refuses to name, but his ass is here now, in a cold leather seat in a rental Peugeot that stinks like old liquor and the ghosts of cigarettes past, listening while Clint Barton fucks a mark.

Possibly SHIELD should update the job descriptions for handlers to include a penchant for voyeurism. It makes Phil want to puke. 

No. No, that's not how it makes him feel, it makes him want to hurt someone, and that's never happened before, this rage, this need to hit someone, to utterly fuck someone up.

His hands clench on the steering wheel. A lot hangs on what information Barton can extract here, and Phil is going to have to sit here and take it, because there's a reason why it's called pillow talk.

Clint Barton is rough and too often uncouth, undereducated and sometimes snide, and he can slide into a role with spooky ease. He has played one or another of his roles for months on end at times, and never, ever dropped character. 

Clint likes the distance of a rooftop best, likes viewing the action over the shaft of a nocked arrow. But he has never said he doesn't like the acting.

Phil takes a drink of his thick cold coffee and snaps his head back against the head rest. Once, twice, stop fucking around, Coulson, get your head back in the game.

His knuckles are white on the wheel. Clint and his opera-singer quarry are winding things up. Phil tastes copper between his teeth.

It takes forty-five minutes for Moretti to croon his way through this particular aria. Sweetly into Clint's sympathetic ear, interspersed with kisses. The man is sixty years old, and from the sound of it he fucks like a twenty-five-year-old wrestler, loud and hard. Now, after, he sounds his age, voice starting to waver, slurring with the drug Clint has slipped into his vino.

Ten minutes and Clint is sliding into the passenger seat. He stinks like Moretti's cologne, like Moretti's come, and his mouth is red with Moretti's kisses. He smiles and says, "Buona sera, signore," and Phil says, "Extraction in four hours."

"No compliments on my performance?"

Phil pulls onto the street, the Peugeot's transmission straining. "Not a theater critic, Barton."

Clint gives a short laugh and slides down in the seat, fidgeting a little. "Everyone's a critic, sir. Hadn't you heard?"

They're holed up in an apartment near the oldest part of the city, rickety stairway and a heart-stoppingly lovely wrought-iron balcony overlooking their narrow cobblestone street. Phil has been here before, twice, and thinks that someday he'll buy one of these apartments here, a small house maybe, and retire. Drink heavy red wine in the evenings and tiny cups of espresso in the mornings. Get a cat.

Clint tugs off his jacket the minute they're inside, making a face. "Fucking shower better be working," he says, and Phil grabs his elbow and puts his weight behind it, a choppy two-step that brings Clint flush against the wall. Clint's eyes are comically wide. He draws a breath to say something and Phil lets go, reels back and punches.

"Fuck," Clint sputters, and grins. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. "What the fuck was that, sir --"

Phil has never felt more alive than in this moment. There is no one else -- perhaps Romanov, no one else -- who could hit Clint and inspire no instant defensive move. The second punch bends Clint at the waist, a harsh puff of air, and the smile is gone when he stays bent and launches himself at Phil, snarling.

They are not evenly matched. Clint is younger, stronger, and at his best at a distance. Phil is a good marksman but he excels at hand-to-hand combat, and Clint has never been his equal. It doesn't stop him. 

Phil wants to laugh suddenly, a fizz of exhilaration like prosecco in his veins. Clint lands a lucky shot and Phil goes with it, brings up an elbow that snaps Clint's head back, stops himself before he can complete the move because he has killed eight men this way, broken each of their necks, and he doesn't want to kill Clint Barton. Not today, not ever, but he wants to hurt him, and he doesn't care why.

He slams Clint's face against the hardwood floor, wonders if he's broken his nose. Clint arches up and Phil straddles him, twists his fingers in Clint's hair and leans close to his ear and says, "You stink like him."

Clint laughs and bucks and Phil hits his head on the wall behind him, doesn't feel it at all.

It takes ten more minutes and several mortally injured items of furniture before Clint can't break Phil's hold, strains and sweats and curses while Phil slides his knee between Clint's thighs. Clint freezes, and Phil hisses, "It was a very good performance. The crowd went wild."

Clint shudders underneath him. His wrists are sweaty where Phil has them pinned. "So what you waiting for," he pants, and lifts his hips against Phil's groin. "Fucking waiting for."

Clint's wearing expensive trousers that cup his perfect ass like an offering. Phil uses one hand to pop the button and yank them down far enough. No underwear, and Clint didn't shower after Moretti. It's disgusting, and Phil feels the dizzy haze thicken a little more while he opens his own pants, pulls Clint to his knees and down on his elbows and shoves in hard enough to hurt, rewarded by Clint's thin sound of pain, and then, "Fuck yeah, you're jealous, you can't stand it, oh fuck, knew you were listening."

"Jesus fucking Christ shut up," Phil snarls, takes a handful of Clint's hair and pulls his head back. "Shut up, I'm so fucking tired of listening to you talk."

Clint squeezes him, hard, painful, and laughs when Phil's hips stutter. "How many times," he says, "how many times you gotta just sit there and listen to some guy, can't ask me to dinner like --" He breaks off and gives another gasping laugh when Phil forces Clint's knees wider, hopes it hurts. "Like some fucking normal goddamn person, gotta beat the shit out of --"

"Will you shut your fucking mouth," Phil says, "for once in your godforsaken life."

"You love it, sir," Clint says, and that's the thing, isn't it, hasn't it been what started all of this years ago. As insane as Clint drives him, and he'll readily admit it's very close to insane at times, say, tonight – there is almost no part of Clint he doesn't alternately admire, appreciate, covet, lust after; even those parts he likes less than some aren't without admiration, without awareness. The mouth on him, the most jarring and infuriating attitude and he would not have Clint any differently, treasures it and laughs at the handlers and agents who curse Clint, grit their teeth and endure Clint because he's always a little obnoxious but never more so than when the goat isn't just in the process of being gotten, it's been got, and all parties know it.

There is no part of Clint Phil would change, not one goddamn smart-ass flirtatious atom, and all the fucking parties know it good and goddamn well.

“Oh, Christ, I can hear you thinking,” Clint groans beneath him, arches his back and undulates like a sweat-streaked snake. Squeezes him again, smooth and slick, and the tiny coherent part of Phil's brain goes sideways, teeters and falls off the rails.

“Come on, you pussy.” Clint pushes back, back, snap of his hips until he's glued up against Phil's groin. His breath hitches in his throat, his ass ripples like wind on oily water. “Come on, just give it up and fuck me, you want it you GOT it you –“

Phil digs his fingers into Clint's sweaty flesh and lets go, scraping fingernails into red furrows and listening to Clint's high, ecstatic voice when words get garbled and become delighted breathless laughter. 

“Are you,” Phil gasps, squinting his eyes shut. “Laughing at me you little – little shithead oh fuck, fuck you, tease, teasing me for --” He snaps his hips, buries himself in Clint's horribly fuckable ass and feels his orgasm in his toes first, boiling up like it's alive and grinning to show a mouthful of razor teeth.

Clint gives a sharp cry and tenses against him, head down and fingernails skittering against the hardwood floor, no purchase, flailing while Phil shakes his head and presses forward until his face is flush against Clint's sweaty shirt, teeth skating over cotton and biting until he finds a bit of Clint's skin to press between while he jerks once, twice and again.

They're flat on the floor, hands slippery with sweat and the hardwood slippery with Clint's less socially acceptable emission, and Phil tries to pry himself off Clint where he's landed, can't get any traction on the wood. Clint levers himself up, arms bulging while he shifts and peels them apart.

And then flops on his back, hard thud of elbow and hip on the floor and his mouth wide in wheezing, exhausted laughter.

He is gorgeous, filthy, bruised, and there is blood on his shirt, cotton rucked up high enough to show small brown nipples and acres, miles of heaving chest.

He's still laughing, and Phil pushes himself up and slides closer.

“You're crazy,” Phil gasps and shakes his head.

Clint's eyes go wide. “I'm crazy? You're the craziest fucker I have ever met in my life, you --”

Phil drops his head, not even a lean but just letting gravity pull him down to lay his open mouth against Clint's lips. It shuts Clint's words off like snipping the power cord, and this close Clint's eyes are terribly dangerous. Shocked and narrow with caution.

Clint can fuck marks, he can fuck a lot of people, but fucking's the easy part, this is the part that

Clint's fingers are shaking when he reaches up to pat Phil's cheek. “Never thought you'd,” he slurs. 

Phil is suddenly aware of his pants, twisted around his thighs below his bare ass, and how ridiculous that must look. “Jesus,” he says. “Fuck.”

Clint barks a laugh and arches up to kiss him, hard and mouth open and a dart of his tongue before his teeth nip Phil's lower lip hard enough to draw blood. 

-end-


End file.
